by Dave Duncan
precautions. In the meantime Ambrose himself was
standing there at the top of the steps, glowering over the
heads of the Guard, who were all intent on the
Baels--show a Blade a sword and he could
see nothing else. Sending the werod ashore
earlier had been a typical Radgar ruse
to distract his opponents' attention from some other
front, force, or--in this case--weapon. He
had won a dozen battles with feints no more
subtle than that.
The Princess reached the landward end of the jetty
and the Blades on the slope moved aside,
emptying the stair for her. They cleared a path right
to the King's toes. A blind limpet could not miss
at that range. Radgar stooped and lifted away
the leather sheet covering the crossbow. He took
up the bow, already spanned, and laid the bolt in the
groove. He had practiced at least an hour
a day for the last half year--unheard-of dedication
for him. In one swift motion he stood erect,
aimed, and squeezed the trigger. Thwack! said the
bowstring.
"Get him?" asked Leofric, who had been
watching the river for stray ripples, but the question was
drowned out by the werod's scream of triumph and
howls of horror from the crowd onshore.
"Right between the eyes. Isn't that what I
promised? Make a wake, helmsman." There
might be bowmen up there on the bank, and one dead
king was enough.
Leofric responded with a yell and a thump of his
mallet on the rail. Seventy-two oars bit
the river, sending Wracu bounding forward. She was
capable of astonishing speed in calm water, and the
scene ashore dwindled fast behind her.
Radgar drooped on the rail, limp with
unexpected reaction. It was over! Finished at
last, Dad avenged.
Avenged in plenty! A major riot was
developing. Screams drifted over the water.
The biggest drawback of the Blade system was that
the poor dupes went berserk when their
wards died, especially if the death was caused
by violence. Bystanders and horsemen were fleeing in
all directions, even plunging into the river, although
some of those might be demented Blades trying
to attack the longship. Ambrose would have company
on his last journey.
Farewell, Fat Man! Imagine that
pompous fool thinking his daughter would buy his way
out of a blood feud! Now the King of Chivial was
a sickly three-year-old boy. Chivians would
scream treachery, but in a month or two they would
be ready to settle. They had no option, thanks
to Wasp's blockade.
Wasp was going to be devastated. Radgar did
not want to face Wasp.
"You haven't done your reputation much good,"
Leofric said sourly. He had the crew singing their
stroke now and could spare some thought to nagging his
monarch.
"What reputation?" Radgar leaned his elbows
on the rail and stared at the flat shore receding,
the palace that had come into view, the rain. ...
"Chivians have been demonizing me for years.
How can they complain if I start running true
to form?" Realizing he was still holding the bow, he
hurled it overboard and watched it vanish in the
murky water even before the ship carried him away
from the spot. "Ambrose did not bargain in good
faith. He forced his daughter into submitting and then
claimed she was marrying voluntarily. That's what
we tell the ambassadors."
"Scytel!" Leofric said. "You just made a
serious mistake!"
"Shut up, old man!"
Dad was avenged, that was all that mattered.
Now he could get on with his life.
Would take some getting used to.
Pity about the girl. She'd have made a fine
queen.
Epilogue
Year 369, A Year of Sorrows:
In Thirdmoon the spirits took the spirit of
Ambrose, King of Chivial, the fourth of that
name, betrayed by Baelish treachery in the twentieth
year of his reign, and his body was returned to the
elements. His successor, the fifth of the name of
Ambrose, being an infant in his fourth year, was
smitten by fever and his body was returned to the
elements, the crown of Ranulf then passing to his
sister, the Lady Malinda, a virgin unwed.
...
Annals of the Priory of Wearbridge